Blackfeather Woods but is blood really thicker than water?

He almost doesn't notice the blob of mud hopping about in his peripheral. Almost. But when he does, the yearling abruptly halts in his steps, blinks once -- twice -- before peering acutely and coming to the realiztion that underneath the thick layer of dirt and mud moving about was a child, specifically, his youngest sister. A low chuckle escapes from him as he lightly shakes his head, and he trots over to the girl through the underbrush of the forest. "What are you doing?" Vaati voices his curiosity, peering down apon the girl with uncharacterisitc amusement. Camoflauge, he wonders. Or perhaps the art of decorating one's body with mud was a current pastime for this next generation. He would never have considered the need to protect oneself from the birds that made their homes in the decayed trees of the dark woods. They were scavangers, and were only ever real danger when one was either dead or almost so. Otherwise, the ravens and the crows continued their eternal war over the aerial dominion of the woods, paying little mind to the creatures below who truly ran it. But he takes note of where they currently stand: a graveyard of those who came before them. From what he knows, their grandmother's bones lie somewhere amongst the red, fitting. He wonders if he should mention it to the girl, teach her what he knows of their heritage and where they come from. The significance of who they are. But the topic itself is riddled with blank spaces and bloodshed, things he wishes they never know. And so he holds his tongue, and instead, awaits her response.